


Pitivo

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Names and the Power of Names, Post-Seine, slowish burn, to a certain degree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 05:42:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6740869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow, after that night, he first becomes Jean in the privacy of Javert’s thoughts. It is just another secret for him to keep. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, when he cannot sleep for the fire in his blood, he dares to close his eyes and pretend the hand is Jean’s, and sometimes he whispers the name he has been given to hold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pitivo

They have been living as friends – friends!- for almost a year when Valjean gives him a gift.

“Please,” the man says one day, over breakfast, “If you wish, please call me Jean.”

Javert lays down his fork, two inches from his plate, and lines up his cup with it, and when he can fuss no longer, he looks up. Valjean watches him, so patient, more patient than Javert could ever possibly have earned. The man has saved his life, opened his home, and still he offers more. 

“I do not believe I deserve to.”

“Nonsense,” Valjean smiles, “It is mine to give, and I give it to you freely.”

“A name is a powerful thing,” Javert murmurs, before he can stop himself, the half-buried memory of his mother’s voice slipping from his mouth. If Valjean looks at him a little strangely, he does not put voice to it. Instead, he picks up his tea and sips it, blowing gently on the surface as his custom, his lips pursed and his nose crinkled. He does all this as Javert is looking down at his own hands, but he can still see him, in his mind’s eye and with a start, Javert realises that perhaps he already knows more of the man then he believes he does.

“J-Jean,” he says, tasting it for the first time, and something grips at his chest, squeezing hard, “I – I don’t know if I can.”

A hand, warm from the teacup, covers his own, prone on the table, and Javert does not flinch. How is it that he has become used to this, this casual touch, a hand over his or a press of his shoulder? He does not even remember when he stopped pulling away. These days, he would not want to.

“Do not distress yourself,” Valjean says, and how could it be that he just understands?

“It is yours now, should you choose to use it. If you do not, I will not take offence.”

Breakfast continues as before and it is only afterwards that Javert realises Valjean has not asked for the same from him.

*

The first time is an accident, a moment of lost clarity that he cannot account for later. Valjean has been out for the day, visiting with his daughter and son-in-law, and Javert watches for his return as the night begins to fall. The house does not feel right when he is away.

Eventually, as the darkness envelopes the street and Javert is twitching, ready to pace if the man should take much longer, he sees Valjean appear at the corner. Pressing his face to the window, Javert watches his slow progression up the street. Valjean is tired – the hitch of his step, the old convict limp, is always worse when he is tired. Perhaps that is the reason that he has not noticed he is being followed. A lithe shadow steals along, and when it makes the move towards him, Javert does not think. He throws open the window and shouts.

“Jean! Behind you!”

Valjean starts and turns, catching the wrist of his would be attacker, and holding it firm. The youth, hauled into the light, tries to pull away, cursing and spitting, and Valjean just looks at him. Eventually the boy stops and starts to cry. Javert, at his post, does not hear what he says, but he does see Valjean’s shoulders drop and he sees him take out his purse and hand the boy something.

Javert is there to meet him at the door.

“You should not encourage them.”

“His younger brothers and sisters are starving,” Valjean says lightly, shrugging out of his coat, “His wrist was like a baby bird’s leg.”

Javert opens his mouth to argue, and then thinks better of it. He had thought that he knew criminals once. He has learned, at least, that he has been wrong.

“You called me Jean,” Valjean says, “Cried it out into the street, for all to hear. Have you changed your mind?”

He is smiling and Javert cannot bear it.

“An accident,” he says shortly, “Concern for your safety. It will not happen again.”

Valjean is still smiling as he slips past into the kitchen.

*

Somehow, after that night, he first becomes Jean in the privacy of Javert’s thoughts. It is just another secret for him to keep. Jean does not need to know, as he does not need to know that Javert dreams of him, of touching him, of Jean returning that touch, and that sometimes Javert wakes in agony for want of him. He will not ruin Jean with his filthy thoughts; that much he knows for sure. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, when he cannot sleep for the fire in his blood, he dares to close his eyes and pretend the hand is Jean’s, and sometimes he whispers the name he has been given to hold. 

*

They are in the kitchen when Javert first sees it, a glint of something he cannot quite read in Jean’s eyes, like an ember that falls from the fire and smoulders on the hearth. He is at the table, sipping from a cup of coffee that Jean made for him. His hands are cold from the garden and he can feel his hair coming loose, but he had promised to cut back the tree and so he had, rain be damned. Jean had helped him from his coat when he came in, draping a blanket around his shoulders and pushing the coffee into his hands. Now he is standing at the sink, leaning against it, arms folded, and there is that look. Javert tries to return the stare but finds he cannot. Instead he looks down, blood rushing up to his cheeks and pounding in his temples, and he is so hot that he thinks he might faint. He senses, rather than sees, Jean move towards him, feels the hands on his shoulders, pushing the blanket away. His shirt is damp from the rain, but surely too much. Jean lays the back of his hand against Javert’s forehead, and it is like ice. Someone moans and Javert looks up, looks up at Jean. The glint is gone and he looks…concerned? Scared, even. The moan again, and it is not Jean. Javert barely registers that the sound must have come from him before the room spins and it all goes dark.

*

He is in Jean’s bed when he wakes. He has been here before, after the night of the barricades, after the river, after it all. 

Jean is asleep in the chair beside the bed, one knee pulled up and his arm resting on it, his chin upon that. It looks so uncomfortable that Javert doubts he has been sat like it for long and, when he calls, Jean starts awake. The book resting open beside him falls to the floor with a thump and he jumps.

“You are back,” he says, and Javert’s aching head is grateful for the softness with which he speaks.

“Where have I been?”

“A fever,” Jean stands and comes to sit on the edge of the bed, “The doctor says you may suffer every winter now, with the damage you did to your lungs when – well, after you did what you did.”

His brow is wrinkled with worry and Javert feels like he might vomit, although he is empty. He had vowed, promised himself, that he would never give Jean reason to worry so again. He can do nothing right. _Damn, damn, damn –_

His hands curl into fists and he presses them to his eyes, as hard as he can stand, just for a moment. Even that is too long, because he feels Jean’s hands then, pull the fists away and prise his fingers away from his palms, and Javert can do nothing but look down at their hands joined together and try to breathe.

“You must not punish yourself,” Jean says, and his voice is distant because he has started to stroke Javert’s fingers, running the pads of his own fingers slowly up the length of each one and although he must mean it to be soothing, it is nothing but fire in Javert’s breast and he fights to not pull away.

“I should not have allowed you to take to the garden today,” Jean is still talking, perhaps worried that Javert is not answering him, perhaps thinking that he simply does not want to. It will not occur to him that Javert cannot. He has no idea of what he is doing.

“I will leave you to sleep now,” he says, and the hands are gone, much too quickly. Javert forces his eyes upwards and manages to avoid wringing his hands in his lap. Jean smiles and nods, before he blows out the candle and heads for the door.

“This is your bed,” Javert says, the first thing that comes to his mind, “Where will you sleep?”

“In yours, of course. You need the room with the hearth more than I on this night.”

The second thing that comes to Javert’s mind, and he stops himself from voicing it just in time, is that what he needs is Jean beside him. 

*

When Javert is recovering, just as he did the last time, Jean installs him in the library with a pile of books and the daily newspaper. When this happened before, Javert could barely stand the fussing, the oppression of Valjean’s concern. Now he finds that whilst Jean understands him better, gives him space and allows him time alone, he wishes that he could ask the man to stay, to join him on the sofa and – he does not know what he wants. He wants to talk, to talk to another person like he has never enjoyed doing before and, if they cannot do that, he just wants to sit beside Jean and feel him there at his shoulder. 

One day, he summons all of his strength and asks Jean to join him. He has no talent with conversation but Jean has learned a little in his time and he fares better. He tells Javert about his father, a tree pruner like his son turned out to be, and the kindest man that he ever knew.

“He would perhaps say the same of you,” Javert offers, and Jean blushes. It is a pretty sight.

“I think of him often. I was named for him and I often used to curse my blackening of it.”

“I did not know my father,” Javert says, halting, “He was sentenced to life in prison when my mother was still with child. She stole money to feed herself, from – from a customer. All that I told you that day at the hospital is true. I was born in the gutter, and I never left it.”

Jean licks his lips and seems to be about to speak. He stops, leans forwards, prods at the fire with the poker and leans back. He takes a deep breath. Before he can ask the question, Javert answers him.

“She was a fair enough mother, for a criminal. I left her as soon as I was old enough to fend for myself. I suppose she is dead now.”

“Did you love her?”

The question knocks the air from him. He has never asked it of himself.

“I – she taught me about the stars. When it was cold, she let me sleep by her side. I was hungry but I never starved. Is that love?”

“I would say so,” Jean lays a hand on his arm and it is only then Javert realises he is trembling. Jean looks at him with such warmth, looks at him like no one has ever looked at him, except perhaps for his mother. His mother, who he ran from. His mother, who gave him every mouthful of bread she had. She had been so thin. Why had he never noticed how thin she was?

“She had a name for me,” he blurts, talking now because he cannot stop and he needs Jean to tell him that it is alright, that he is forgiven, “She called me – my name is Pitivo.”

It is too late. He has given it to Jean. His last tenuous hold on himself, on who he used to be. He is laid bare, cut open and vulnerable, and Jean can reach in and take whatever he pleases. He squeezes his eyes shut. The fire is hot and he cannot breathe.

“A fine name,” Jean says, but his voice sounds faraway, “What does it mean?”

“Stone,” Javert chokes, and he suddenly understands the aptness of the thing, like she had been able to see the future after all, the future of her stubborn and stupid son, “It means ‘stone.’ She used to call me Pitti.”

“She wanted you to be strong,” Jean says simply, his voice light as though Javert had not just cut out his heart and offered it to him. Could it be that he does not understand? _Oh God. He doesn’t understand –_

But Jean is on his knees in front of Javert, hands pressing him back into the cushions of the sofa and he is kissing him, so gently that Javert could cry, if he remembered how to do it. Jean’s lips are soft and Javert clings to him, because this is all he has now. It is too much. 

It is too, too much.

*

Jean takes him to the bedroom, fingers wrapped firm around his wrist, and he allows himself to be lead. 

It is too much.

It is love. 

It is love.

It is _love._

Jean undresses him, with hands that shake almost as much as Javert’s, and he undresses himself and they lay together, pressed so close that Javert wonders if Jean could crawl inside him, into the gaping hole he has made with his tender hands and gentle words. 

Jean kisses him again, wraps his hair around his fingers, but he does not ask for more. 

Javert is grateful. He is tired, so tired that he could close his eyes and sleep for a hundred years, if Jean were not here holding him. 

“Thank you,” Jean whispers, “For sharing yourself with me. I worried that you never would.”

“You know it all,” Javert says, and he pushes his face into Jean’s shoulder, dares to press his lips there, “I have nothing else to give.”

“I will call you by your name, if I may,” Jean mumbles, and it occurs to Javert that he is tired too, “If it is only to be used by one who loves you.”

“You – you may,” Javert says, and he wonders if Jean will do it now, when he is not sure he is ready to hear it.

“Goodnight, Pitti,” Jean’s lips curve into a smile when he hears Javert’s gasp, and he places a last kiss on Javert’s forehead before he settles to his sleep, “I like it already.”

Javert hopes that Jean does not feel the wet splash of his tears in his hair.

He wonders if, somewhere, his mother could be smiling too.

**Author's Note:**

> OK...so this has been sitting half finished in a folder for a while now and I was suddenly struck by a wild impulse to finish it and get it out of the way, so it hasn't been beta'd or read by my trusty compatriot. It kind of took a different turn to the one I was expecting and maybe the mum talk made it kind of weird? I don't know. I quite like it though, weird or not. 
> 
> 'Pitivo' is a real name, of Romani origin. As soon as I saw what it meant, I thought it suited our man.


End file.
